Waiting
by clair beaubien
Summary: Dean has a headache. All Sam wants to do is take care of him. Dean apparently has another idea.


Set vaguely in Season 7

* * *

Sam propped Dean up with one shoulder while he unlocked the motel room door. He didn't flick the light on, he knew that Dean – with his out of the blue migraine – wouldn't be able to stand it. He only levered Dean off the outside wall and propelled him into the dark room and to the far bed.

"Okay." Sam said. He kept his voice soft. "Here we go. Lay down. I'm gonna bring everything in."

He lowered Dean to the bed, slowly and gently and trying not to jar him. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and bent his head into his hands.

"God – Sammy – how do you stand having headaches like these?"

"I don't have a lot of choice."

"No, but – geeze." Dean pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. "The _hellhound_ didn't feel this bad."

"Shut up." Sam said, only half joking. He still kept his voice soft. "I'll get some ice for you. Put it on your neck, that'll help."

He started to move off, he needed to bring in the duffels and the leftover carry-out still in the car. He needed to get Dean the ice and secure the motel room for the night. He turned to move away but Dean reached out one hand and took hold of his shirt sleeve.

"Wait – okay? Just – wait a minute." He didn't lift his head from where he still had it pressed into his other hand.

"Yeah. Sure." Sam wasn't sure what he was waiting for. But he waited, standing there, until Dean took a hard tug on his sleeve and Sam sat down on the bed next to him.

"Those pills should've started working by now. Let me get you a couple of the strong stuff."

"You need those." Dean told him.

"I need you to not be in agony."

"Just – just wait a minute."

"Okay."

And Sam still wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Maybe Dean thought giving it another few minutes would let the pills he _had_ taken work. Maybe just the sound of Sam's boots on the floor was too much for his head.

"Dean –" He kept his voice still a whisper. "Let me get you some ice. If you won't take the heavy duty pills, let me get some ice to put on your neck. That helps me sometimes."

"Mmmmh…" Dean answered. It was a distinctly vague answer. The hand still firmly gripping Sam's sleeve was distinctly less vague.

So, Sam waited. Still not sure what he was waiting for, but he waited, because Dean always did that for him. From the ancient history of his visions and 'extracurricular' exorcising abilities, to his more recent hallucinations and the fun of getting whacked upside the head with a crowbar, Sam had unlimited experience with blinding, brain-hemorrhaging headaches.

And nearly every single time – those four months without Dean, sickening in their own way, excepted – nearly every single time Dean had been there for Sam, with water and painkillers and patience. Lots and lots of patience for the times that the painkillers weren't enough, or weren't fast enough, and the only thing that got Sam through the agony was _Dean_.

When lying down only made the pain spike, and sitting up was dizzyingly precarious, and opening his eyes even a crack threatened nausea of cataclysmic proportions no matter how dark the room was, the one thing that always kept Sam from pounding himself unconscious on the closest wall, was Dean sitting with him, waiting, patiently, quietly, immovably, until the drugs - 0r _more_ drugs – finally started working and Sam could go to sleep.

Sitting, waiting, just like Dean wanted Sam to do now. To just sit quietly next to him while he rode out the agony, waiting and hoping the pills would finally kick in.

And Sam felt a sudden sharp sting behind his eyes.

Dean wanted Sam with him. Because he didn't feel good and Sam sitting with him made him feel better.

_Dean needed him. _

All thoughts of ice and supplies and movement and action evaporated. Sam shifted a little closer and pressed his shoulder against Dean's.

"Okay, it's okay." He said, echoing what Dean always said to him. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm gonna wait right here with you. You'll feel better in no time."

Then – and only then – Dean let go of Sam's sleeve and leaned into the support he was offering.

"Chick flick." He muttered.

Sam smiled.

"_You're welcome."_

The end.


End file.
